Goodnight My Little Lad
by Mademoiselle-Eclair
Summary: Kay based, an expansion of the oneshot is there life after Erik? How long can secrets stay buried for? Can the past ever die? Various POVs.
1. Chapter 1

**Goodnight my Little Lad **

**Little Sultina's Note: **Currently a Kay based one shot, I am considering continuing this as a full story. What do you think? Please review with your ideas, and, as ever, any comments, criticisms or kudos you may have.

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Hello my little boy. It's me - daddy. I know you can't see me, standing here beside you and mummy, and I know that you can't hear me softly singing a lullaby to help you sleep tonight. But I would like to think that you can sense me, as your head rocks back, your miniature eyes, a dazzling shade of blue staring straight at my own.

For nine long months I've been waiting for you, ever since your mummy told me in her prayers that she was going to bear us a blood red rose of our own. It wasn't easy for mummy to bring you into the world son; her pregnancy was riddled with complications and all sorts of horrible things that you can't understand; that I don't want you to understand.

I was so fearful for mummy's life, yours too that I wouldn't leave her side for a second. I would stand in that darkened room, watching mummy gasp for breath as she tossed and turned in her lonely bed. I tried to comfort her, to wipe the sweat from her brow and rock her to health in my arms - but alas I have no such privileges; for now I truly am a ghost.

Your birth, so very dangerous that I thought mummy wouldn't make it, and that you would both join me in heaven; but how pleased I am that I was wrong. Through a fog of ether and carbolic acid, you became a living boy, as perfect as I could have possibly dreamed.

I watched as you were passed to that man who you will learn to call papa, and I saw him cuddle you, as he named you Charles. Charles - my daddy was called that, and like your daddy, he died before I could meet him. I wonder if in time you will share his handsome visage? At least you will never share mine my dear lad. Heaven promised me that.

Shush now my dear as mummy draws you towards her pale breast, let her feed you. That's it, good boy. Can you see whose tears slowly trickling down her cheeks as she hums that funny little song to you? I can see them, and each one of those droplets pierces my frozen heart. I try calming her with my words of love, but they don not reach her ears.

I talk to mummy all the time, and sometimes she hears me, and her head spins around to the spot where my invisible body stands. Most of time, she ignores me; seeking Ayesha for company. But now she has you my little rose blossom. Look how your squeak of tiredness brings a smile to her face, as she brings your mouth away from her teat, and begins to lovingly caress your back.

Look after mummy for me Charlie. She has been so sad and she needs you to be there for her. Never abandon her, and be for source of light for her that I no longer can be. As you grow older, and learn to run and play games, remember how tightly she holds you now and repay her unworldly love. Talk with her, hug her, play for her and remind her of how much I loved her.

There may be another man, the luckiest man alive, to whom you acquit the title 'father'. He may be the one who physically holds you in his noble arms, and places a kiss to your brow as you lie peacefully, under the layers of blue muslin that line your cradle; but I will always be with you. I will be applauding as you murmur your first word, encouraging you as you take your first tottering steps, beaming as you eagerly press your first few notes on the piano, and smiling proudly as you fill your mummy's life with joy and happiness.

Perhaps you will never know the truth about your paternity, which is probably a good thing. For what benefit would the truth be to you? You have an earthly father, someone for you to love and to love you back. Someone to teach you and care for you, someone to give their name to you and give you all the things that - even if alive, I never could.

Mummy is putting you to bed now, it's time for you to sleep now my little lamb, that's it don't struggle as mummy places you down with a deep kiss on each of your cheeks. Your candle is being blown out, and mummy is going to visit her husband, something that I fills me with no resentment or jealously. For I have you now my boy, and I will for all eternity.

Goodnight my little lad.

Sweet dreams

See you in the morning.

All my love

Daddy


	2. Chapter 2

**Little Sultina's Note: **After publishing the first chapter of this story months ago, I decided to leave it as a one shot, however after re-reading it I have decided to expand upon it, and see where it takes me. I have no fixed plan in my head, so feel free to comment with any ideas you may have! Thank you for all the lovely reviews for the previous chapter, and I hope the rest of the story does it justice!

**Christine's Narrative **

Charles is three years old today, funny how quickly time passes, isn't it? Why, I can scarcely believe it, three already, why it seems just yesterday that …..

Anyway, what good does it do to swell on the past? My, what a happy, happy day it is! The sun's glistening in the August sky, casting a beautiful light over the gardens. How lovely it would have been for Charlie to have a picnic outside; plates of miniature sandwiches on a checked blanket spread out by the pond. Of course, no one else would hear of it, shocked they were that a fine lady should consider eating on the grass! Did I not care that my skin would tan? Did I not care what other people would think?

For that is all life is about in London, what other people think. Today is another social event, another contest to be fought for the approval of high society. Aristocratic children will be flocking with their spinster nannies and governesses to the nursery to get in some practise for all those dinner parties they'll be attending in not too many years from now. I would have much preferred a quiet celebration, perhaps just Raoul, Charles and I; but Raoul was quite insistent.

"Remember Christine, nursery tea parties soon become charity galas and grand balls, if we don't invite people for this, will Charlie ever be invited to any of them?"

I murmured and agreed. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately, for I'm always in the wrong. Being a lady of high society is far more difficult than I had ever imagined, for there are so many things one mustn't do! One mustn't show emotion, so no squealing and shrieking as I had done with the Corps du Ballet then. One mustn't perform task that are 'beneath her', the maids were shocked when I suggested that I would make Charles' birthday cake, appalled in fact. One mustn't care for one's children, I was persuaded to stop nursing Charles' after his first six months, and hand him over to a prudish creature named Elizabeth, who now occupies the fourth floor of our charming London residence.

But above all, one must never, ever let is show that one is not a countess, a lady of fine breeding; that one is a Swedish peasant made good some how, and that, no matter what, that is what this confused child always will be.

Silly me, going on like this! Today is not a day for upset and regret, it's a happy, happy day!

I have my Charlie do I not, my lovely little boy! Yet, recently whenever I look at him, I see someone else, in his chocolate brown orbs I see the reflection of a man, a man whose dark, dark eyes carried the same expressions, the same movements. My God, Charles is only three, what will it be like when he grows older? Will he have the same walk, the same gestures, and the same turn of phrase? Will his presence forever haunt me? Will the same child that fills me with joy and warm memories of the past become just another sign of my infidelity?

Will it become that whenever I look at my son all I can think of is my poor, unhappy Erik? Will his smile constantly remind me of where my heart really lies, remind me of my mistakes, remind me of what a horrible wife I am?

For a horrible wife I am indeed. A wife whose hearts belongs to a man who is not her husband, who dreams about this man, who wishes it was this man who lay next to her and her husband in the coffin … what a wicked creature I am! I am a disloyal wife, an adulteress who has allowed her heart to break the rules of the Catholic Church and the promises I made to my dear Raoul. I was unfaithful in body, and now I am unfaithful in heart.

I pray that God will forgive me, I pray that he will help me to be as devoted a wife I can ever be. I pray for forgiveness, but yet I am not sorry. I am sorry for my husband, but in my heart I know I would never change what I did. For the truth is, that I love Erik, my angel, the father of my child. I love him, and it is both my ray of light and my cross to bear.

Then what do I feel for Raoul? I feel love, but not the Eros that flows through my veins when I think of Erik. I love Raoul like a friend, a brother; I care for him and I adore him, but as a sister dotes on a sibling not how a wife feels for her husband. Perhaps if I had never known passion, I could convince myself that I loved Raoul as I am meant to, but I have tasted real love, I have felt it run through my veins and I know that is not what I feel for my poor husband.

My poor husband! Not only can I not give him my heart, but I can not give him my body. What a strange turn of events, such a terrible blow, such a wonderful relief. As he lay dying. I promised Erik I would always be his, now I suppose now I really am. His forever, my body belonging to no other man.

But how must more poor Raoul feel? Of course, in his way he is happy, he believes he has a son, does he not? A son whom he can mould in his image, the happy, healthy boy that every man wishes for. I know that Raoul is not always faithful … but how could I expect him to be, his wife a useless excuse for a woman at the end of the corridor. I should never want to punish him for his infidelity, for what else am I to expect him to do? Be chaste for the rest of his life? Nor shall I ever tell him the truth about Charles' paternity, for what good will it do? It will only -

Oh shush Christine! Why these tears, this sadness? Today is a happy, happy day! I should be looking to the bright future that lies ahead of me, not yearning for the past. Things are as good as they will ever be in the circumstances. I have everything I could ever want, wealth, influence, position in society and a wonderful, wonderful son; so why is it that in my heart, I would trade it all for the thing I sinfully crave above all others.

Erik.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three - Charle's Narrative**

_Date - My birthday!!!!!!_

My name is Charles - Philippe De Chagny, I'm eight years old today and this is an account of my life. Daddy said that is it healthy for a school boy to jot down all their stories, anecdotes and drawings somewhere safe - so for my birthday he gave me a thick black book filled with plain paper and fitted with a lock!

It's the middle of the night and I can't sleep (I never can - Mummy says it's because I'm such an excitable person), so I've sketched a portrait of myself in my brand new school uniform as a cover page and I decided to follow daddy's advice and write a brief outline of myself - so I can look back on it when I'm older.

Last year I started going to boarding school in Kent, about two hour's train ride from my home in London. Mummy cried and cried the night before I left but I send her long letters every week and that makes her very happy. She doesn't cry much now, though sometimes her letters to me have the odd tear stain - but mummy's very emotional, daddy say's that all ladies are.

I like my boarding school, I share a room with my friends Edward, George, Clement, Roger and Alfie, and sometimes we wake up in the night and have a midnight feast. I've installed a little bell that warns us if matron's coming, and it has prevented many a disaster, (matron's so strict she'd ban us from pudding for a month if she knew we were staying up past light's out)!

I find my lessons very easy and all my teacher's say I'm working at a level far beyond my years! They say that if I keep up the work this year, they'll let me jump fifth form next year and put me straight into sixth - I can't wait for that! My favourite lesson is science, and languages - I'm really good at those. I've already been allowed to drop German because I can speak it so well already, and instead I have sessions with a special tutor from the London Academy of Architecture that mummy persuaded daddy to engage for me.

I like designing buildings, it's very interesting but the other boy's say it's sissy. They tease me sometimes because I'm not so good at games and I don't want to join the house Rugby team - but I don't mind their name's, they don't really mean it. Besides, I still have lots of friends, mummy says that's because I'm such a kind little boy, but I think it's because I've taught them how to play cards, but we never play for anything more than sweets.

My favourite things in the world are art and music. I spend all my study time sketching scenes from book's I've read and when I'm at home I do a lot of painting - for my birthday mummy got me some very special oil paints and brand new brushes; I've going to use them to make a family portrait to give to mummy for _her_ birthday!

I spend the rest of my time playing my instruments. I've always loved music, ever since I can remember I've spent hours by the piano or with my violin. I have an hour of piano lessons every day, I'm already as good as my instructor, certainly better than any of the other boys at school - even the seniors, but I don't like to boast. Some teacher's say that I'm one of the best pianist's they've ever heard and last year they arranged for me to have my own public recital at the school hall!

It was part of the school music festival, but I was given twenty whole minutes to perform! Everybody's parent's came, and they all applauded me, some of the father's even congratulated me afterwards, and the mothers praised me as if I were their son - I was so embarrassed. Mummy and daddy were there too; daddy looked after when I was sick before I went on stage and mummy cried all through my piece - I told you she's emotional!

Everyone say's I'm very talented and that I'll be very famous one day, but I don't pay much attention to them, they don't listen to my music after all, they just like me because I'm small and 'adorable'. I think I get my talent from mummy, she used to be an opera singer, but she never ever talks about it and says I mustn't mention it to anyone; but she never tells me why.

My favourite people in the world are my mummy and daddy, and my cat Ayesha. Daddy says that she used to be mummy's cat, but when I ask where she got it, she only says that someone gave it to her. Mummy and daddy are both very religious, but I think mummy's more devout than daddy. She attends mass every single day and prays lots and lots; she always talks about angels to me and how we must all pray to our guardian angel.

I pray to my guardian angel everyday with a special prayer that mummy taught me, even when I don't say my Our Father or Hail Mary, I always pray to my angel. Sometimes I talk to my angel too, when I'm scared or afraid I talk to him rather than God or Jesus, I know how bad that is, but I've always felt especially close to my angel.

Sometimes, when I'm falling asleep it feels as though there's someone beside me, when I can't see anybody there. That's my angel, I know it is. Ever since I can remember there have been nights when my angel watches over me, sometimes I dream that I hear him, but that's not very often. There are stories, real ones too, that people have seen angels; if I could wish for anything in the world it would be to see mine.

I know how silly I sound, almost as silly as mummy and her fairy tales! I know if I told any of my friends about my angel they'd all laugh, and even daddy would probably smile. Mummy understands though, she understands a lot about angels, she believes that I have a special, unseen protector and she says that he'll always be with me, unless I'm very very bad.

So I always try my best to be good!

Maybe I'll try and draw my angel tomorrow, but now I **_must_** go to sleep, it's gone midnight - it's now the witching hour as mummy would say.

_**Charlie **_


	4. Chapter 4

**Raoul's Narrative**

Five o'clock in the afternoon and banished to my study, what I way for a man to live! I joke my friends, no I have retired this early to avoid the chaos that has overcome the house in preparation for tonight's celebrations; mine and Christine's 10th wedding anniversary!

The servants are running about like lunatics, carrying this, cleaning that, and preparing the house for the biggest party ever held in it! With all the cluttersome ornaments, and extra furniture cleared away, there will be room for around one hundred and fifty of London's most desired guests. Politicians, actors, singers, writers, landowners and other members of the Chelsea and Westminster elite, as well as a few guests from the country and the continent; all with their spouses, or in the case of some of the male theatricals, their 'good friends'; but their business is their business.

Christine should be in her powder room now, having her hair styled, and being dressed. I bought her a fabulous new dress for the occasion, pure white silk, the skirts dotted with miniature crystals from Austria, the sleeves long and skin tight. She should look a dream in it! I have also bought her a small present for the occasion, something I will present to her tonight at the party. It's a locket carved from a lump of solid rose quartz, lined with white gold to enable it to be opened and closed. In the centre of the locket I had a miniature diamond placed, and inside Charles' first lock of hair. She will adore it!

I seen to be buying my wife more and more gifts these days, jewellery, clothes, stockings, trinkets … to compensate for my own guilt perhaps?

I try to be a good husband I honestly do, I indulge her little fancies, listen to her tales of idle chit chat, see that her every need is attended to … more than most husbands ever do. I try to be faithful to her I honestly do try, but I am only a young man, in his early thirties, whose wife, for reasons out of our control cannot allow him to enjoy all of his marital rights. With separate bedrooms at opposite ends of a long hallway, it is only to be expected that acquire a mistress, most Englishmen 'entertain' other women as a matter of course, it is practically expected.

Miss Rose Colne, daughter of a sadly deceased, rather wealthy tea merchant. An orphan and young woman of comfort and unquestionable beauty I first took her to my bed nearly a year ago, on the night of her eighteenth birthday. Oh my dear little Rosie! Such a precious young thing, so gay and frivolous, undemanding and carefree! She never cries or complains, is never solemn nor serious, she never thinks about the future … in fact she never thinks about much - a ideal woman! But not my only one I'm afraid …

Apart from the various 'brief affairs' I've had since arriving in England, I have taken four women that I would consider to be mistresses, although I could easily have more. I do not wish to brag, but as a reasonably young, handsome, cultured count, I have had many a woman play the flirt with me.

I try so hard to be faithful. Sometimes, when I see Christine smile at me and give me a loving kiss on the cheek I vow that from tomorrow I will reform, leave my women behind and devote myself to my wife. Though I confess I have yet to muster the will power to see my resolutions through.

I love Christine, I honestly do, but other the years I have noticed my love change from that of a man to his wife, to that of a brother to his sister. I can not bare to see her unhappy, and I wish to protect her from the world in a castle of dreams, but yet I feel little else for her. As when were young children, I wish to be her companion and nothing more.

I know she feels the same towards me. Everyday that passes I feel her love for Erik grow stronger and stronger. He was meant to be her lover, not I. They shared a passion, an intensity that can never be repeated. The day Erik died, he took her heart and soul, that is why Christine could never give them to me.

As for Charles … my perfect son, the son who is without fault and without question the finest boy I could have ever hoped for … the final proof of to whom Christine's love lay with. Yet, I love that boy as if he were my own and can quite happily forget for long stretches of time that he is not my blood child.

I once prayed to God, prayed that he would help me accept Charles and my marriage situation, and be content. But now I find I seldom pray, even at Mass on Sunday I find myself distracted by the stunning Jones' girls seated on the pew in front. My once solid faith has waned to such a point that I use God's name in vain more often that I do in prayer. Perhaps I feel guilty for breaking the seventh commandment and dishonouring my wife … but perhaps I have just become more English? I am eating fried bacon and mushrooms for breakfast after all!

Six o'clock, time to change in my new suit and prepare myself for the evening ahead. Miss Enid Cane should be attending, fabulous actress … still without a husband or beau and hoping for a little push in the right direction from a man who can whisper her name into the right ears … Damn myself! How can I think such things at my own wedding anniversary celebrations? What a foul man I am … what a foul husband with my foul farce of a marriage.

Even though I know so little about him, somehow I now I am nothing compared to the gentleman of Erik.


End file.
